


we're not so tied together

by vintaged



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: /slams tankard on the counter/, M/M, all the kisses zeb can't forget, kiss kiss kiss, literally just an excuse for me to write intimacy and character growth, thank u and goodnight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25441702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintaged/pseuds/vintaged
Summary: Everything, all at once.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus & Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios, Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 18
Kudos: 142





	we're not so tied together

**Author's Note:**

> sending my love and thanks to whip, elle, and alex for their help with this piece. also thank u to the national for providing me with an endless supply of pining titles. ;)

_His first memory is of a kiss._

_It’s foggy, and he doesn’t think about it often. Zeb, as a rule, prefers to keep his pre-Ghost memories packed away. He dislikes the feeling in his gut when they appear, unbidden; that sickly sweet ache, just below his ribcage. It is unfamiliar, and yet so deeply intimate, a combination that has never worked in his favor._

_Anyways._

_It’s a special kind of kiss, one reserved for family. He isn’t much more than a kit in this memory, knee-high at most, probably teething. Sometimes it returns to him, in dreams, or in the quiet of morning, before he can focus on the present. Zeb works hard to split his life into befores and afters, and if there is ever a time to dwell on the before, he’d rather not be conscious._

_In this dream-memory, he is sitting in his mother’s lap as she gently grooms him, her claws cold against the soft of his baby fuzz. By Lasat standards, she is the best at this. Always knows where he is most sensitive (just behind his ears, down around his elbows), where to focus the cleaning (under his chin, usually slick with leftover breakfast), when to stop (right before his a’dan gets back, and musses everyone’s fur with his loud, boisterous greetings and hugs)._

_His mother is just finishing up; she has parted the curls on the top of his head, smoothed them down as much as possible, and he has done a good job being patient. He tells her so, and she laughs. Leans forward so that her cheek brushes his ear, rubs the side of her face against his. He squeals -it tickles. She says that’s his prize for being so still, purrs in his ear, scents him in the way only mothers can. Lasat kisses are special, little one, do not forget._

_Zeb wakes up warm and shaking and alone. Every time._

_He does not dream about his mother much, these days._

_1\. MOLAVAR: SCARIF SYSTEM, ABRION SECTOR, 06:00_

After Bahryn, Zeb doesn’t see Agent Kallus in person for several months. He’s busy now, what with Chopper Base slowly morphing into some semblance of starting point. Everyone is adjusting to the groundbreaking concept of a home -some more smoothly than others, Kanan says. In a desperate effort to speed the process along, Hera has been working overtime to make the planet feel stable and safe, setting up barracks and hangars and meeting rooms. It’s thanks to her that this skeleton of a rebel infrastructure is finally being fleshed out, but she’s grown tense with stress and caf and dealing with the moody blurrg that is Ezra Bridger.

See, Ezra refuses to sleep in the makeshift beds they’ve built under stiff, sprawling leaves of the towering plants; he has settled himself firmly on the top bunk in the Ghost and, as he makes annoyingly clear to Zeb, has _no intention of moving._

Kriffin’ orphans. He understands, in a way, knows that Hera does too. That’s the thing about makeshift families; everyone comes with their own baggage, linked by that subconscious expectation of abandonment and loss. Up until very recently, The Ghost has served as the perfect middle ground; the ship never stops for long, the layout is small enough that any sound bounces around the cabin in a parsec, and while Sabine has spray-painted every corner of the ship, it’s still just _that._ A ship. No commitment necessary. And thanks to Kanan, if there’s one thing Ezra hates these days, it’s commitment. (At his age, Zeb is pretty sure he was the same way -not that this makes the kid any less annoying. In fact, it makes him even more so.)

All this to say: he’s been busy. He works, he guards, he builds. The missions are becoming more and more focused, their new Fulcrum clearly close to the heart of the Empire; there is more danger now, or maybe Zeb’s just more aware of it. He can’t help but feel like a sitting duck sometimes, perpetually waiting for that one, horrible com that will signal they’ve been found out. That it’s over.

And then the messages start coming.

From _Sabine_ , of all people. 

He’s asleep when she first mentions it, or almost asleep anyways. She’s so quiet Zeb doesn’t even hear her at first, not till she clears her throat and scares the kriffin’ daylights out of him.

“I ran into Kallus, by the way,” she says in lieu of a greeting, leaning against the doorframe. “He said to tell you that you two are ‘even.’” 

Zeb jumps at the sound of her voice, hits his head on the thick metal bar of Ezra’s bedframe and barely manages to bite down on a yelp of pain and surprise. Karabast, that little Mandalorian is too quiet for her own good. 

“What?” he tries not to spit the word at her, rubbing the quickly-forming lump on his head.

“Yeah, when we were escaping the training facility. Used your full name and everything. He helped us get to the right hangar and warned us of the floors to avoid. It was really weird.” She smirks. “When did you two get all buddy-buddy?”

Zeb swings his legs over the side of the bed and glares at her. “I wouldn’t call us ‘buddies.’”

“Then what the hell was that?”

Looking up into Sabine’s baffled face, Zeb realizes with a jolt that he never actually mentioned Kallus’ presence on Bahryn. It wasn’t _intentional_ , it just… never came up. There’s no way to casually slip in the fact that you were trapped on an ice moon with your people’s killer, except not really because he was exaggerating, except he killed a fellow guardsman, except even that was done honorably? It makes no sense. And honestly, it’s not worth the effort.

Rationally, Zeb knows that no one in the crew would be angry with him for saving an imp from near death, not when their survival depended on each other; murder is not the Rebel way, despite what he’s seen on the holonet. But there’s something about the things Kallus has done -claims to have done- that make the jump from _enemy_ to _ally_ just a little too wide for Zeb’s liking. He sighs.

“I may have forgot to tell you, but you remember when I got stranded on that ice moon?”

“Yes.”

“Well, uh… while I was there…” _Why is this so awkward?!_ “It wasn’t, er… just me. Kallus and I got stuck in the escape pod together, and he busted his leg. We kinda ended up… helping each other.”

Sabine frowns. “But you didn’t bring him back to the Ghost?”

Zeb finds he can’t look her in the eye. He focuses instead on his knees; there’s a new scar forming on his left thigh, all puckered skin and burnt hair. 

“We worked together. He said he wanted to wait for the Empire, and I figured -since we’d pretty much got even- he’d be alright on his own.”

“You left him alone on a frozen planet with a broken leg, and no way to get back to his ship?” Sabine sounds almost amused. “And just assumed he would be alright?”

“I left him with the transponder, and a heatsource! It… made sense at the time.” _Stars_ , this conversation is terrible. “I figured he could take care of himself, an’ it sounds like I was right.”

Sabine lets out a small huff of laughter, and Zeb finally looks up to see her eyeing him with an expression that by this point he _should_ be able to place, but today is just out of reach. For a moment the two observe each other, and the air is heavy; Sabine’s eyes narrow, just a bit. Then she shrugs, turns to go.

“I guess,” she throws over her shoulder. “He seemed to think he owed you, so you might want to set the record straight next time.”

Zeb scoffs. _Next time?_ “There won’t _be_ a next time,” he calls after her. “Not if I can help it!”

Two weeks later he’s eating those words.

On an Imperial starship. On the border of the Outer Rim. Attempting to steal several datapads worth of information. 

To be precise.

Fighting Kallus again is awkward, Zeb realizes as their bo-rifles meet in midair with a loud crack. He steps back and clicks open the ends of his staff; there is a hiss as they spark to life and a few pricks of electricity zap up the hilt into his cuffs.

He snarls. Something is wrong, off-kilter; Zeb doesn’t like it, wants to revert this uneven air back to something familiar. Something _normal_. And Kallus, damned imp, isn’t having any of it; he sidesteps, clearly uncomfortable. Keeps his rifle in staff mode. What is he _doing?_

“Garazeb-” he starts, and Zeb _really_ doesn’t want to hear what this Imperial has to say, not at all; things are blurred enough as is without Kallus talking at him like they’re anything other than enemies, never mind buddies. So he just roars in response, throws himself forward with bo-rifle extended, and Kallus has no choice but to block. Zeb flicks his wrist so that the weapon swivels faster than a heartbeat, makes to stun Kallus -but the Imperial ducks, sidesteps, blocks again.

He refuses to strike. The realization infuriates Zeb, makes his lip curl and a flush rise to his cheeks. If Kallus isn’t going to defect to their side, then he may as well return to his beloved role as a pawn of the Empire. There’s no room for gray area; doesn’t he know that?

Another growl is building in his throat. Zeb throws himself at the Imperial, and Kallus barely manages to get his staff up in time to block the blow. The man is small, smaller than Zeb remembers, but he’s just as quick. With a grunt Kallus shoves his weight back into Zeb, and he slips on the metal floor. Staggers backward, shakes his head to clear the dizziness. The bo-rifle is spitting sparks now, eager for a hit. It’s not Zeb’s fault that Kallus wants to play peacemaker. After all, this isn’t a kriffin’ diplomatic mission. 

Kallus tries again. “Garazeb-”

“It’s _Zeb_ ,” the words are sharper than he intends, but Zeb doesn’t care. If he can rile Kallus up, even a little, then he’ll consider this a victory. “I told you.”

“Fine, Zeb. Look,” Kallus narrowly avoids Zeb’s strike, twists so that they’re back to back. “I don’t want to fight you. Listen to me, I’m-”

“Shut up!” Zeb whips around to face Kallus again, electrodes extended, somehow even more angry by the turn this fight has taken. This is ridiculous. He thrusts forward, knocks Kallus’ weapon from his hand. Kallus grunts, and now he’s off center, unsteady. Finally. And Zeb _will not miss._

From somewhere far below them comes the groan of machinery coming to a halt. The ship heaves suddenly, and everything goes sideways. And then upside down. _Karabast._

Chopper must have found the gravity well.

Down the hall, Zeb can hear stormtroopers yelling in shock and confusion as they begin to float, no longer linked to anything solid or heavy. It takes all of his strength not to let out his own cry of terror as the ground becomes irrelevant and his bo-rifle slips from his grasp; Kallus, on the other hand, gasps and claws desperately at the floor (wall?) for something to hang on to. The metal sheets are rounded and smooth -nowhere for human hands to gain purchase. In the back of his mind, Zeb decides that Kallus can be decidedly chaotic, if given the right situation. It would be funny, if this whole day wasn’t so _weird._

Zeb can feel himself drifting, away from the hallway and towards Kallus. If everything goes according to plan, Chopper should have the gravity back to normal in a matter of minutes. He just needs to get a hold on something, hook a claw into the metal...

Carefully he stretches his leg out, pawing almost frantically for the nearest wall (or is it floor, now?). He misses once, twice- yes- hooks one toe into the crick of paneling.

Zeb lets himself breathe, for a second. If he can hold on, when Chop turns the gravity well back on, he’ll be right-side up. Maybe-

Wait. This isn’t the wall. This is the ceil-

_Oh._

In a split second Zeb feels gravity solidify again in his gut, sudden and unnerving -then the floor is rushing up to meet him, and Kallus is scrambling to roll out of the way, dragged backwards by his newfound weight. _Karabast_ -

Zeb lands on him with a grunt. Kallus, to his credit, doesn’t cry out, but Zeb can hear a sickly hitch as all the air is pushed out of the man’s lungs. His neck snaps up as their combined weight meets solid ground, and neither can stifle a small groan of pain as Kallus’ jaw collides with Zeb’s upper cheek.

The world goes quiet. 

Zeb’s head is spinning, a far-off alarm blaring in his ears; but he becomes aware, almost immediately, that he’s crushing Kallus beneath him. He’s inhaling a new scent, a combination of sweat and the sharp, coppery scent of Imperial fabric. Realizes, as he scrambles away to claw desperately for his lost bo-rifle, that there was a moment where his face was pressed into Kallus’ neck; that they were cheek to cheek, Zeb’s nose buried in the man’s shoulder.

_Where is my karking bo-rifle?!_

For the second time in as many minutes, Zeb feels that awful heat creep into his cheeks, the tips of his ears. He glances over his shoulder to see that Kallus is clambering to his knees. His face is equally flushed, down his neck and probably below the collar; _stars_ , but that man can turn red.

Unimportant. Zeb turns away, searching, searching-there! As soon as his eyes land on the familiar wrappings Zeb snatches his bo-rifle from the corner of the hall, staggers to his knees. He is surprised by how off-kilter his body is, suddenly faced with solid ground; but that doesn’t matter, balance is overrated, _get a grip!_

Focus on the mission. He has to find Ezra, who’s probably waiting by the escape pods already. That’s what matters right now. Get Ezra, and get out. That’s it.

“Don’t follow me,” Zeb growls over his shoulder, and he runs. Doesn’t really know where he’s going. Doesn’t look back.

(Later, Sabine and Ezra will label this a kiss. To his grave, Zeb will swear it was anything but. He did not love that man, not then. Not for a long time after.)

_2\. YAVIN IV: REPOSITORY 16R, 14:00_

They’re doing inventory. Or, rather, they’re _supposed_ to be doing inventory. AP-5 has wandered off into another corner of the warehouse; Zeb can hear him grumbling as he maneuvers between crates, piles of scrapmetal, buckets filled with spare parts. Every now and again a disappointed “why do I bother” will waft back to the doorway, where Kallus and Zeb are organizing cases of stars-know-what.

If anyone needs a drink, it’s that droid.

“What’s _in_ these things?” Kallus asks, as he pushes a crate out of the way with one last grunt. He’s gone flush with exertion, and the words come slowly, painfully, between heavy gasps of breath. Zeb can’t help but scowl. The man is ridiculous; he works himself to the point of collapse, decoding every Imperial file that the Rebellion intercepts, then takes on additional, physically exhausting duties instead of sleeping. If he wasn’t so worried, Zeb would be impressed. But humans are fragile things. He knows this now.

“Stars if I know. Now, would you stand still?” Zeb tries. “Kal just… stop for a second.”

Kallus turns to him, resting his hands on his hips. His shirt has ridden up a bit above his belt to reveal a pale stretch of skin, a patch of soft hair, and Zeb finds himself swallowing hard at the sight. _Not again._ He whips around to stare at something, anything, else.

Zeb didn’t ask for this. He’d like to go on record as _not asking for any of this._

 _This_ being the unnerving, newfound fascination he’s developed for everything that is Kallus: his smile, his freckles, the way he takes his caf (black, two sugars, three on holidays). Zeb isn’t sure when it started, exactly, but it appeared hand-in-hand with the steady ache he now knows as worry -deep seated, heavy, and reserved for family. 

Normally this wouldn’t bother Zeb; he knows that Kal has changed, down to his core, and after the hellscape that was the liberation of Lothal, the man has wedged himself firmly in Zeb’s good graces. No, what bothers him is that these days the ache is accompanied by something else; a heat he tries not to focus on, a warmth that pricks his ribcage and pools beneath his belly. Zeb really doesn’t want to think about that.

He catches his breath and turns back to Kallus. The man’s hair is so long, now, perpetually wild and unkempt. Kallus is quiet, eyes wide, watching Zeb with the same inscrutable expression that so royally pissed him off all those years ago.

“What?” Kallus says.

Zeb chokes.

“You just -you work too hard.”

“Quite the contrary, Zeb. I would argue that perhaps I don’t work hard enough.”

Zeb rolls his eyes. “Of course you’d argue that.” He steps in between the toppled crates, closing the space to lean on one of the carriers, so that Kallus can look him in the eye when he asks: “How much sleep did you get last night?”

Kallus looks away. The man is a terrible liar, at least where Zeb is concerned. He carries a small torch of pride, knowing Kal can’t keep his voice steady under Zeb’s gaze, will always look away if the words leaving his lips are anything less than brutally honest. In the back of his head Zeb knows this has a lot to do with Lasan, with ugly, bitter memories neither of them can shake -but as long as the topic isn’t actually broached, he can pretend it’s just his intimidating presence.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Kallus.

“How much.”

Kallus coughs uncomfortably. “At least a few hours, I’d say.”

“ _How much._ ”

“Three, probably. But I’m fine.”

Zeb tries to stay calm, he really, really does; but since joining the Rebellion Kallus has developed a stoic presence that can only be described as absolutely infuriating. Beneath his hands, the soft metal whines as Zeb digs sharp claws into the poor crate. A growl works its way up his throat, spits its way out between tight lips.

“Kal, are you kidding me?”

Kallus doesn’t flinch. “I am not,” he says stiffly. “It’s been difficult to find the time, these last few cycles.”

Zeb grits his teeth. Why does Kallus have to make this so hard? “Oh, you mean between all the kriffing overtime you’ve been pulling?”

“Garazeb, I make sure to take breaks-”

“When was the last time you took a break? I bet you barely even use the ‘fresher, you’ve got so many datapads up yer ass-”

“ _Zeb_.” His tone is sharp.

“You know I’m right, you damn idiot. And I’m over it. You’re running yourself ragged, practically throwing yerself at whatever ashla-forsaken mission you can, it’s ridi-”

“ZEB.”

Kallus has had enough. “What has gotten into you?” he snaps. “You’ve been so overbearing these last few weeks, chasing everyone down with your childish fears. You are not my mother, nor my superior, but you speak to me like I’m some fresh-faced cadet; you forget, I answer to the Rebellion. Not _you_.”

He’s leaning forward too, his face crushed into an expression of frustration and distaste Zeb remembers from a long time ago. The only difference now is Zeb isn’t scared, or mourning, doesn’t see Lasan in flames every time he looks into Kallus’ eyes.

He’s just _pissed._

“Karabast, I can’t-”( there is a pocket of air in his throat, that’s why his voice breaks.) “You’re a fool if you think-”

“Do I really seem that weak to you? After everything?”

No, no, he’s taking this all wrong; it wasn’t supposed to go like this. If only Kallus wasn’t so kriffin’ dense, Zeb wouldn’t have to keep berating him like this. It’s not about weakness, dammit. It never was. How does he explain, it’s not that Kallus is weak, it’s - it’s that he’s at a precipice, they all are, and Zeb-

“I won’t lose you, you idiot!”

_Oh._

And just like that, all the anger rushes out of him. Suddenly this all seems so foolish, like kits bickering in a sandpit. They’re nothing, the two of them. Just a couple of soldiers arguing in an empty warehouse, over things no one will remember ten years from now.

It’s enough to make him laugh, almost.

Zeb blinks, lets his eyes refocus. Kallus is glaring, but is clearly caught off guard; his eyes are still narrowed, lips parted in confusion. He’s planted his hands on the crate lid too, although the metal beneath his palms is smooth and unblemished. Zeb releases the sides of the case, and he is quickly reminded that he’s left prints in place of his hands, crushed the corners as easily as if the box were made of flimsi.

Oops.

Kallus is still staring at him, but the sharp folds of anger have softened his face back to the new Kal, save the crease at the edges of his lips. This is the Kal that Zeb is really yelling at; the one that wins every round of dejarik he’s ever played and can’t sing for shit and hates muja sauce with an almost-violent passion. The one watching Zeb so closely, waiting for an inevitable rebuttal -but Zeb knows he won’t speak first. Kal never does; he’s long since given up on controlling conversations, or at least ones that involve Zeb.

“Kal,” He says. “You know what I-” but the sentence won’t finish itself. It’s stuck, somewhere behind his tongue. He coughs, tries again.

“I can’t-”

Ah, karabast. He’s not gonna get it out now; at this rate, probably never. That’s the problem with relying on words to solve things, he decides bitterly. Actions are something you can, see, trust, follow. Words, on the other hand… well, Zeb’s never been good with those anyway.

“I know,” says Kallus, after a moment. He shuffles around the edge of the crate to stand as close as he dares, reaching for Zeb’s shoulder. “You’re just trying to help.”

His hand lands on Zeb’s bicep, and Kallus gives his arm a gentle squeeze. The unexpected pressure is warm, reassuring. Familiar. Zeb is abruptly reminded of Kanan; and all at once he misses that cursed Jedi, misses him with every fiber of his being and ashla, his heart could burst.

Kallus must have felt him stiffen, because he opens his hand and carefully palms Zeb’s upper arm. It’s a strangely intimate gesture, so utterly human. Does Kallus even know the kind of a man he’s become? Zeb wonders vaguely. Has anyone ever _told_ him?

Should _he_?

No. Words have never worked well for them; they both know this.

So, before he can think too hard about it, Zeb presses forward and, claws curled into Kal’s jacket, brings their foreheads together. Breathes in, deep; feels Kallus follow suit. A hush as their bodies settle. Kallus’ breath is shallow; after a moment he lifts his small, gloved hands up to Zeb’s, covers them as best he can. Zeb highly doubts that Kallus understands the gravity of this act -humans rarely do- but he certainly seems to pick up on its importance. Doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move. He is surprised to find that Kallus is sturdy beneath his hands, anchored and glowing.

Zeb feels his breath catch, and something clicks into place.

Everything, all at once.

_3\. MC80A LIBERTY STAR CRUISER: ENDOR, MODDELL SECTOR, 21:00_

Zeb knows he won’t remember this, later. He isn’t aware of much, anyways, not since that damned ion blaster knocked the hearing out of his left ear; vaguely, he wonders if this means he’s deaf, now. Isn’t sure. He’ll ask Rex later.

Around them, people are shrieking with joy. There are screams, and sobs too, of course, drowned out by the rousing enthusiasm of victory. It’s muffled, presently, but the hum of enthusiasm still rumbles throughout the ship, up into his chest. Settles just below his throat. Zeb smiles; he hasn’t done that in a while. It feels almost foreign, like the muscles in his jaw are creaking with disuse. Since Ezra, Zeb hasn’t smiled much; hasn’t really had a reason to.

(Well. One reason.)

(One reason that should be _at his side by now, blast it_.)

_Where is he?_

Zeb glances around the hangar as his lungs constrict, just a bit, although technically he has no real reason to panic. There’s been no official call; and besides, Zeb would know if Kal was really gone. Just... would. 

His wrist buzzes, and Zeb starts, letting loose an unbecoming yelp. The small comm-link just above his right hand is blinking insistently with a new message. It’s a location: third level, section 1F; not far from the medical bay, but far enough that Zeb can relax. At least for a moment.

A flurry of shoulders and elbows at his side reminds Zeb that the crowd in this office is growing larger by the second; everyone is looking for their friends, their family, everyone is sending locator beacons and bumping into each other. It’s a decisive victory, that much has been made clear. And while the Rebellion has certainly matured, there is an immaturity, a hopefulness, that sends every soldier into a tailspin at the first sign of success.

If he wasn’t so tired, Zeb would be impressed by this surge of energy. In his experience, after so many losses you start to say goodbye early. It makes the endings hurt less; and Zeb has never known an ending like this, one where everyone wins, celebrates. Comes home. 

And if this is where it all ends, well, he has somewhere to be.

The lifts aren’t an option, not when faced with this ever-expanding throng of rebels. Zeb holds a finger to his comm until the blasted thing stops flashing, makes his way into the hall. The air is electric, buzzing with an exhilaration Zeb hasn’t seen since Hera went into labor on the Ghost.

(Ezra would like that story. He’d have been a terrible uncle, though.)

He looks to the right. _Ah!_ The door.

If there’s one good thing about being the only Lasat in the galaxy, it’s that everyone sees him coming. It doesn’t take a lot of effort for Zeb to part the crowd, make his way to the emergency stairwell. He almost expects it to be packed, too, but this victory is still fresh; the shock is still settling, and besides, these kids love the turbo lifts. Zeb shakes his head. When did he get so kriffin’ _old_?

He takes the stairs two at a time (because he's still got it, dammit), wheels around the edge of the bannister and out onto the third floor. Cranes his neck to see if Kallus is actually there. Normally Zeb would let his ears do the work, but that’s just another thing that’s changed, another loss to accept. Maybe he can’t hear Kal as well anymore, but Zeb could spot that bastard a mile away-

And there he is. Leaning against the far wall, brow furrowed as per usual. Kal’s lip is bleeding, and even from here Zeb can see the blooms of fresh bruises, the halfhearted bacta patches. Kallus’ left arm is in a sling, and the buttons on his borrowed imperial jacket have torn so completely that the front flap hangs open, revealing a bloodied undershirt. He’s a damn mess.

But he’s alive.

Zeb doesn’t realize that he’s running, at first. He’s too focused on Kallus, who of course isn’t paying any attention; idiot is too busy checking that blasted datapad to make sure his location transferred correctly. But Zeb has never been known for his stealth, and he sure as hell isn’t going to start practicing now.

“Kal,” he growls, and is somewhat pleased to see how quick people are to jump out of his way. Kallus finally looks up. His face, now creased with worry and exhaustion, softens as Zeb approaches. Every sharp edge smooths within a moment of making eye contact; Kallus doesn’t smile with his mouth, so much as with everything else. A glow, of sorts.

“Garazeb,” Kallus says, and then he’s kissing Zeb in his favorite way, pressing their lips together almost bruisingly, again and again; good hand on Zeb’s collar, thumbing through his rough beard. He reaches up to rub just behind Zeb’s ear, and Zeb can’t help but purr as he leans into the touch. If he could, Zeb would hold Kallus forever; and he wants to be careful of the injured arm, the torn skin just below the temple, but also he _doesn’t give a shit._ Even with all the bacta pads, Kallus is soft against him.

“We did it,” He hums into Kallus’ lips.

“Yes,” says Kallus, quietly. His voice is thick with relief. “We did.” He kisses Zeb again, slowly. “Congratulations, Captain.”

Zeb chuffs, leans down, rubs their cheeks together, and now it’s Kallus’ turn to lean in. “You’re not gonna make me celebrate alone, are ya?”

Kallus laughs, somewhere in the back of his throat. “Of course not.”

He keeps his word.


End file.
